


The Ripper and The Fisherman

by faabyy21



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Murder Husbands, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faabyy21/pseuds/faabyy21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal are both serial killers, oblivious of each other, but once they get together hell is unleashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Angel Face and a Taste For Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Chefhector on tumblr.
> 
> Thanks to Ash and Laura for being awesome and reading the work before I even do.
> 
> Leave me prompts on my writing blog http://faabyywrites.tumblr.com

Working for the FBI brought a certain thrill to Will Graham. The urge to smirk every time he was brought into a crime scene became harder as he became more intrigued in the craft of other killers. A killer himself, Will’s targets were chosen because they had left other victims behind. Anyone he saw hurting an animal would end up like a fish on display. Still, he was aware that there was a need to be meticulous with choosing people that could not be tracked back to him easily. This is why there were some serial killers that he regarded above others. The Chesapeake Ripper was probably his favorite. So much disgust and hatred for his targets. Pigs sent to slaughter. Yet, none of them had any sort of connections, other than the way they were murdered. No connection in age, race, gender, financial assets. Nothing. He probably wouldn’t have gotten a name, or a status as a serial killer if his murders were not as peculiar.

What Will missed though, is that this artistic killer that he, if his ego allowed him to admit, admired was a lot closer to him than he would ever imagine. 

Sleeping right beside him. 

The Chesapeake Ripper was the man who whispered sweet things to him before bed. The Chesapeake Ripper was the man who held him at night. The Chesapeake Ripper was the man that shared showers with him in the mornings, that made him coffee, that drove him back home for an hour just to let him see his dogs, that helped him through his cases and through his nightmares. And because he kept his darkness hidden from the Ripper, ironically enough, he was pained through every single one of these gestures. 

And still, both remained oblivious of the other's secret.

Will’s imagination and train of thought led to very creative crime scenes. Sometimes he would copy other serial killers, adding a personal twist to his victims, just so the difference would be detected, because much like he had seen with the Ripper, when Dr. Gideon plagiarized his work, most psychopaths wanted recognition for their actions. Other times, when he found targets that were truly disgusting, he would hang them like fish on display, leaving them exposed to rot in their wrongdoings.

He took his time the first time he killed. At this point he was only a teacher in the FBI academy, so he had a lot more time–he was a lot more stable–and went all out on his victim.

He was driving home from a long day of work. The heat of the summer was strangely intense, and his usual headache from not having slept in a few nights infuriated him. Will wished to arrive home to his two dogs, have a drink, and attempt to fall asleep. Then he saw a battered dog on the curb. The pup barely kept her eyes open. She had an unkept wound on her cheek, the kind of cut that came with a sharp kick. It was dark, swollen, and clearly infected. Her jaw was broken, as well as her leg, and Will felt his gut burn with hatred seeing such a small creature in that state. 

“Who did this to you?” he whispered as he picked up the dog with an old torn blanket he kept in his car. Upon closer look, Graham noticed the pup was actually white, and the rich brown color of her fur came from mud building up on her. He also noticed a small pink band tightly wrapped around her neck with an address and a phone number. “You might have to spend one more night in that home before I take you, okay?” he whispered to the dog as if she would respond. He set the battered animal in the front seat of his car carefully, and made a sharp U turn to the address on her ribbon.

With his knowledge gained from both his field work and teaching for the FBI, Will was able to break into the house with minimal noise and trouble. He roamed the house to check the conditions the dog lived in, and found no trace of the animal ever living there. This made his job a lot easier. No children that would miss daddy, no wife left without a husband, just a lonely, drunk college student that was left with this poor animal for no known reason. 

Will looked out the window to get a quick look at the dog, she was seated where he left her, still trembling, beaten, and cold. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, taking as much energy from the home as he could. The pendulum swung behind his eyelids, and he exited the home in reverse. Will opened his eyes and entered the home, the small white pup now healthily seating in the rug.

“I arrive from school. Another awful day, in that awful place. I'm misunderstood. I'm lost. I see the small dog that my bitch of an ex-girlfriend left me. She probably forgot. I take my anger out on the dog. I kick and kick until I feel better. I grab the mutt and toss her out on the streets. Toss her out the way I wish I had tossed that bitch.”

Will came back to himself and looked around the room. He was even more disgusted than before. How could someone be so selfish? So lost in themselves to attack someone that is innocent, and for no other reason than too much pride and self hatred.

He made his way into the bedroom where the man slept and suffocated him before he created /his/design. Graham opted to kill him quickly, because suffering was not what he sought, he simply wished to rid the world of people like this one, well aware that he was making the world a better place. To shame an abuser. He took the man’s drooled on pillow and pressed it down on his face. The man obviously woke feeling the pressure obstructing his airways and squirmed under his killer. Will was not himself in this state. He hadn’t done this before, but he felt the same way he did whenever a killer he taught about got into his head: powerful and fearless. He showed this man the same remorse the man showed to his dog. Will’s eyes were shut, remembering a case he had read about a mother having killed both her starving children this way. They were mercy killings, and so was this. Mercy for the animal. 

The man finally stopped moving, and Graham took him to the front porch of his home, went to his car, grabbed an old store bought fishing hook, and put it through his lip. He saw a small drop of blood fall down the man’s fat chin; all the way down, until his shirt was stained with the red liquid. Grabbing the nylon string, he passed it through the hook, and used it to pull the man up, like the biggest catch of the day at a port. 

The man’s lip ripped slightly with his weight, more blood dripped down his neck.

Will turned his back to the man and left without another glance at the scene, bringing home his new pup.

At first he felt a small amount of shame on himself. Every time he heard about the case on the news, he felt haunted. He thought that the FBI would be a lot more discreet about certain details, but every piece of information was broadcasted on all major news outlets. He felt cornered, the face of the fat dead man was the star of his nightmares, but with every new murder he gained thirst for power. He lusted for control over his targets, the fear of the people he killed made him addicted to the hunt. With every new target his eyes lit up more when he noticed the final breath leave their body.

Now, his life as an FBI special agent had taken time from his life as a murderer. He had gone almost a year without attacking an abuser, and his newest dog, Winston, was a stray from the streets. His nightmares and headaches were also making him reckless, and he couldn’t risk losing time or being affected by a hallucination while he was at work. He had almost shown his true side once, when he contaminated the scene left behind by Georgia Madchet. The fear he showed when he ran out of the room came because he thought he might have exposed himself. 

Still the day continued as his had recently. He lost himself while driving and ended in Hannibal’s driveway. The Bentley was parked in front, which meant Hannibal was home. Will let out a small sigh, inspecting the outside of the house for a second, then he relaxed on his chair and whispered to himself, “my name is Will Graham, it’s 8:40pm, and I’m in Baltimore, Maryland.” Graham then exited the car and made his way to the door. He rang the bell, and stood back shyly waiting for Lecter to open the door.

“Will?” Hannibal gave Will a confused look. His well tailored suit half on, with the first couple of buttons of his pastel blue dress shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows which usually meant he was cleaning up after dinner.

“I lost time and woke up on your drive way,” Will mumbled slightly ashamed, his eyes focused on the ground.

“Please come in.” Hannibal moved aside to allow Will in, “Did you already have dinner? I have already eaten, but I had some left over if you are hungry.” Though Will never gave an answer, Lecter knew Will needed to eat, since anywhere he could have driven from was probably over an hour away.

Will stepped inside shyly, always feeling intimidated walking into Hannibal’s home. As much as this had become a safe place for him, there was always a mysterious air about it, a hidden secret that crept in the closets, ready to jump out. The porcelain antlers that came out of the walls closed in on Will reminding him of the ravenstag of his nightmares. 

He followed the doctor into his sanctuary, his kitchen, where Will felt most at peace. 

Lecter began working on reheating the dinner as he spoke, “what happened before you lost time?”

Will frowned scanning the counter, “I was driving home from the academy. I don’t remember when exactly, I just remember being in Virginia one second, and the next I was in front of your house.”

“The academy is almost two hours away. Why did you drive so far if you already knew you were planning on going home?”

Will had slumped on the small stool Hannibal kept on the kitchen, and kept his face buried in his hands. He raised his head, looking at Lecter through his fingers. Will was shaken, disturbed, he felt a fear of losing control. Of exposing himself. His eyes jumped from Hannibal, studying every feature of his hard face. The expression of concern and curiosity had an intriguing undertone that Will’s constant headache kept him from exploring, a certain pleasure in the fact that Will had chosen his home subconciously. Will thought this was only due to their relationship, hence prompting the response: “I-I guess I wanted to see you?”

Lecter let out a small chuckle, “I believe we have a session scheduled for tomorrow.”

“I know, but I wanted to see you.  Not Dr. Lecter.” Will’s features were soft and tired, affection glistening in his eyes, deeply hidden by the dark circles under them. 

Hannibal raised his eyes to meet Will’s as he plated the left over dinner. It seemed almost as though he had purposely cooked for two since the plate was easily big enough for him. 

“Where you expecting me?” Graham wondered.

“No. I only have this recipe for two. Paella is not something that can be cooked in small quantities I’m afraid.” Hannibal responded handing him the plate, which Will accepted with a pained smile and began eating. “Anything in particular occur today, or shall we save that for our session of tomorrow?”

Will shook his head as he swallowed, “I’d rather wait until tomorrow. Right now I just want to rest,” he answered quickly and continued to eat, struggling with the shellfish in his plate. Will ate in silence, admitting to himself and Hannibal that he was actually hungry. 

“Thank you,” he whispered setting the now empty plate down. 

Hannibal gave him his usual charming closed smile, his eyes overflowing with affection for the younger man. He ran a hand through Will’s hair, kissed the top of his head, and nuzzled his face against the dark curls, taking in the man’s sent. The fevered sweetness was intoxicating and beautiful, like misty air after a warm rain in the summer. Hannibal took the plate and washed it, glancing back at Will after a moment to see what he did, but he remained seated, shoulders folded down, defenseless and defeated, submissive, having a staring contest with Lecter’s kitchen floor. 

“Is something bothering you? Will?” he asked turning to look at him, after he set the plate to dry.

Graham jumped like a child woken from a dream, or a dog that just heard a foreign noise, “huh? No, I’m just–tired.” He gave him a small tired smile.

“Let us head to bed then.” Hannibal offered a hand, Will opened his mouth to find a reason to protest, “I have some of your clothes upstairs, it is no trouble. I wouldn’t want you driving at night after you’ve lost time and admitted that you’re tired.”

Will let out a sigh and nodded taking Hannibal’s hand. After the special agent was on his feet, Hannibal pressed the back of his hand against his head, “You’re warm, Will. Do you feel well?”

“I haven’t felt well in a long time. You need to be a little more specific.” 

Lecter pressed his cheek against Will’s temple, at which Graham closed his eyes and leaned against the familiar touch. Hannibal smiled, letting his fingers run through the younger man’s curls, feeling the cold sweat at the start of his neck. “You have a fever my dear Will. Come, I’ll get a bath ready for you.” Hannibal pressed his lips against Will’s temple and grabbed his hand again, leading him up the stairs to Hannibal’s bedroom. 

The walls in the room were in similar warm tones to his office room, with big red curtains surrounding the windows, a large rococo painting on the wall opposite to the window with a dark wooden frame that matched his bed’s, that was dressed in fine black fabrics. Will sat carefully on the bed, and Hannibal continued to the bathroom that was covered in fine white tiles, a clear glass faucet that came out of the wall. He leaned over to turn on the water of the bathtub, also white, with golden details, and let it settle in a temperature that would lower his lover’s heating fever. This was his way of controlling Will’s madness, as he hoped he would unleash a hidden side that Will had shown when he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. He was convinced this side of Will was hidden from them both, and to let it out, he was to light a control fire in his head, and see what the out come would be. 

He went back into the bedroom. Will stood as soon as the older man entered, a well trained dog answering to its master. Hannibal stepped confidently into Will’s personal space, looking at him in the eyes as his hand reached the top button of his flannel shirt. “The bath should help lower your temperature,” he said working his way through each button, “I put a special Japanese bath oil that should also help you sleep.” His hands ran through Will’s smooth shoulders, helping the cheap fabric slide off his body and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his collar bone, “Go in.” Will nodded quickly, removing the remainder of his clothes, and stepped into the bathtub as ordered.

He had always been a submissive person. Someone that would not go out of his way to please someone, but never one that would not oblige to orders of who he felt superior to him. He was always of average height and build, which caused a certain contradiction as he was always one to make himself look smaller, though he had the body type of a stag: strong agile legs, good for running, and arms that had been shaped by carrying broken boat motors to and from his home, as well as dragging the boats to near by lakes under all weathers. Yet, he secluded himself, and made himself smaller, wearing big clothing that would give the idea that he was a lot smaller. But Hannibal knew Will was actually in a good physical state, he had tested it through many nights, this being further proof that he would be a good companion as a murderer, but that was a beast he had to wait to be unleashed, or so he thought. 

Hannibal folded Will’s clothing meticulously, and went to get the t-shirt and underwear that Hannibal kept as part of his closet as the nights Will spent at his home became more and more frequent. Then, Lecter headed into the bathroom to find an almost asleep Graham in his tub. He leaned down to touch the man’s forehead, which caused the Graham to open his eyes and turn to look at what was touching him. 

“Your fever has gone down significantly, take a quick shower to rinse yourself, I’ll wait for you in bed, I’ll leave your clothes here,” he settled them and allowed him to finish cleaning himself in privacy, as he went to put on his pajamas and lay down while he waited.

When Graham exited the bathroom his wet hair was still dripping on his shoulders. Lecter looked up from his iPad, sensing the sweet heat that Will radiated, “You cannot lay on my bed with your hair like that. You’ll ruin my pillows.”

Will ran a hand through his curls, a sign of slight exasperation, letting droplets fall on the wooden floor, “You say that every time I take a shower here,” he commented, “and not once has your pillow gotten ruined.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes. Next to him Will climbed on the bed and glanced at what he read. “You did not tell me you were at a crime scene earlier today,” Hannibal commented, allowing him to see that he read the latest report by Freddie Lounds. 

“I can’t believe you actually read her site,” Will responded avoiding the subject.

“Alright,” Hannibal turned off the device after exiting the website, “not reading anymore,” he turned to Will and kissed his forehead, “sleep, you look exhausted.”

“No promises,” he mumbled settling down against the pillow.

 


	2. I Won't Let You Be Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a nightmare, and Hannibal has something big in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ash (http://starkassembled.tumblr.com) for her awesome help as always!
> 
> Also leave me prompts on my writing blog http://faabyywrites.tumblr.com

Will was running. Chasing after someone, or something. Or he was being followed? He wasn't completely sure. There was nothing ahead or behind him, just trees that opened an isle for him, with branches that sought after him, stopping his feet from going quicker, hands that held him back from catching his prey, or escaping from his predator. Why he ran, Will didn't know. The crunch of leaves was faint in the background, breathing hard, his heart loud in his ears. Will was afraid, once again becoming aware of where he was and what he was doing. Still not sure if he had lost time again or if this was simply another dream. 

Will finally managed to stop. A quick look around showed him that he was alone. Still, he remained unsure if he was the hunter or the hunted. His last clear memory was falling asleep beside Hannibal. It wasn't possible that this was the last thing that happened. The night seemed faded, the sky was not dark enough to be night, but the orange hues alerted Graham it was dusk. He had lost an entire day. Or he was dreaming again. He looked at his watch, but his hands never stood still, trembling in front of him. Once his eyes focused to the light, and he managed to keep still, he noticed his watch had stopped the last time he had cited the time to himself: 8:40pm. He looked at the sky again, it was not dark enough to be 8:40pm on an autumn night.

His breathing was still rough, chest rising and collapsing as he inhaled fear ridden air, eyes wide, and sweat dripping from his cheeks, it wasn't cold though. It wasn't a fever. The sweat was from running, and he felt a single droplet fall next to him and saw fade into the mud. 

Will stretched his hands out in front of him. No blood, good. No hunting knife in his pocket, only his little pocket knife. In his jacket his cellphone and his glasses remained in his pockets. He put them on, taking another glance around. Maybe he was running from nothing. He looked at his feet and saw his shoes, front covered in mud, surrounded by crunched dead leafs.

A glance up revealed his 9 targets, swaying with the wind, hanged from the branches of one central tree, with arms and fingers that spread through Will's field of vision. The nylon shined under the moonlight like a thinly woven spiderwebs. All their bodies were limp, held up from their lips. A familiar pattern, a trail of blood, found their way from their lips, down to their necks. Under some of the bodies sat the victims they had left behind. Will's loyal companions. The dogs healthy as they presently were, all thanks to him. Because he had tended their wounds, bathed them, fed them, and kept them alive as much as they had returned the favor for him. 

In the center sat one that wasn't his target. He had killed this man, but never meant to fish him. Hobbs sat, empty, against the tree in the middle, as he did when he died, a smirk on his face, and Will could hear the man's last words being yelled in whispered: "See? See?"

The pale dead eyes stared right at Will, and he got lost in the distraction. There was life in those eyes, a spark or evil, the satisfaction of success. Will scanned Hobb's orbs with quick movements of his eyes, jumping from the right to the left, and once again to the right. Finally Will freed himself from Hobb's gaze, and looked up at the tree once again. The ravenstag stood in its place. Majestic and large, as tall as the tree that was previously there, and impaled in its antlers were his targets. Each now had a different end of an antler going through their bodies, mounted like the victims of the Copycat.

A loud crack averted Will's eyes from the display. He saw beneath his feet now lay a thin sheet of ice. His reflection on the ice showed him smirking confidently, but he was well aware that was not his face at that moment, for he was still recovering his breath and his eyes were still in awe of the ravenstag in front of him. The man under his feet had hungry eyes, filled with excitement, a look he had not had on his face for almost a year. Another loud crack found Will losing grip under his feet. He sank to the lake beneath the ice, being pulled down by the weight of his heavy clothing. 

Up he kicked and wrestled with his clothes to find his way out of the freezing water. With every kick it became harder for him to find the surface. He struggle against his lack of breath, a throbbing headache, and the cold burn of icy water against his exposed skin.

Opening his eyes, he found himself next to Hannibal, in the same bed he had fallen asleep. With the sheets kicked off and his own side covered in sweat, Will didn't understand how Hannibal remained asleep next to him. He sat up quietly, careful not to wake the man next to him, and rubbed his palms against his eyes, letting them run down his scruff. He felt a shift next to him, alerting him the Hannibal was awake. He looked over at the older man and gave him a small smile.

With one look at those dark, tired, glassy grey eyes, Hannibal knew of the terrors they had just seen. He got up and went into his walk-in closet and came back with a glass bottle of water, from Italian underground springs, as the carvings on the bottle read. 

Lecter handed it to his partner. "Drink," he ordered, with which Will raised the bottle to his lips, still trembling. "Tell me about your dream."

Will's eyes were big when he looked at Hannibal again. He was not the best liar, and lying Hannibal, the man that knew him best, was that much harder. "I-I saw Hobbs," he whispered.

This was enough for Hannibal. he closed his eyes and nodded softly, running his long fingers over Will's wet curls. "You have a fever again, Will. It's not just for my pillow's sake that I tell you to dry your hair before bed."

Will looked away, taking another small sip of his water, "Right, sorry."

Hannibal looked over at his alarm, it was to set off in 20 minutes. "I'll get started on breakfast, you need take another shower. You are drenched in sweat." He pressed his lips quickly against Will's temple, "I'll be downstairs," and with that he left, leaving Will to do as he ordered.

Once downstairs, Hannibal started his coffee maker, with his own personal blend, that he had specially made thanks to some old colleagues. The blend was a mixture of Venezuelan beans, to go with the breakfast's theme, and several special ingredients of his own. He looked through his fridge, retrieving the right cut of meat for what he wished to prepare, as well as all the all other ingredients to go with it. He placed it in a pot, filling it with water alongside carrots and onions, all in chunks, and let that settle on low; by it he set another pot of black beans. He then cut avocados, and put them in a bowl with tomatoes and salt, dropping the seed of the avocado in the middle, knowing it'd go bad otherwise. He worked on the arepas by hand, massaging the dough, making sure each was the same size, settling them on the pan, and letting them cook. 

Hannibal removed the piece of meat from the pot once it had turned brown and was dripping with juices. He shredded it to thin pieces, then passed it to another pan, using the carrots and onions from the same pot, now cut into small squares and mixed it so it was all together. The arepas had been baked and cut open. He stuffed each with the different things he had prepared, put all five of them in a row perfectly on a white plate, white wax paper covering the end by which they were to be held. In another white bowl he put the paste-like black bean mixture, as well as a bowl with shredded white cheese to accompany it.

Will came downstairs in his clothes from the previous day. He sat where the table had been set, across from where Hannibal usually sat. He inspected the food, and realized that there was very little he recognized, aside from a general idea, but he was well aware that Hannibal would explain the dish.

The doctor came out in his satin robe, holding two mugs of dark coffee which scent filled the room as he entered. His hair, yet to be slicked back in its usual fashion, flopped as he leant forward to hand Will his mug, giving the doctor a much more youthful look. He sat and fixed his silverware so it was perfectly straight, not that it wasn't before. 

"Venezuelan Arepas stuffed with shredded meat, guasacaca which is made with avocados and tomatoes, and queso de mano, a type of cheese only made in the area," Hannibal explained as he reached for one, and carefully set it on his plate. Will did the same with less grace, and some of the contents did not remain in their designated place. 

Will was not fully awake and the breakfast was eaten in a companionable silence. Both men spent many breakfasts without uttering a single word. Peaceful silence was something they both admired. Hannibal gathered their plates once they had both finished and Will followed him into the kitchen.

"I'm going to head home now. I left the dogs on their own all day yesterday," he explained. 

Hannibal turned to look at him with a smile, "I understand, dear Will." He folded the cloth he was using, and threw it carefully over his shoulder, maintaining it folded and flat, then poured more coffee into a thermos. "Take this, you barely rested last night." Will took the thermos of coffee and whispered a thank you, then felt Hannibal's lips pressed to his temple. "We have an appointment tonight," he reminded the younger man, "I will see you then." With another quick nod, Will headed out for the door.

Hannibal made his way back to his room, got ready for the day, putting one a deep purple pinstriped suit and a rich orange tie over a simple white cotton dress shirt, threw on his coat, and grabbed his briefcase as he walked out. Upon arriving to his office, he settled in his chair and read through his schedule, knowing he'd have to deal with simple minded sheep until 7:30pm, when his session with Will began, if a psychopath didn't hold him back.

Hannibal dealt with his first batch of patients until noon, glad to have some time to indulge in lunch and some reading. He unlocked his iPad and discovered an alert from TattleCrime.com telling him the website had been updated. Lecter tilted his head with curiosity as he tapped on the note that led him to the article. 

"Fisherman Fished and Put in a Tank." 

The title was eye catching and controversial, just like Lounds usual fair Under the article was a picture of the last Fisherman victim, the caption gave credit to the photographer, dated from nearly a year back. Hannibal's eyes ran through the article quickly, examining with detail the journalist's rhetoric which was often was very misleading. 

It was all speculation.

According to Lounds, The Fisherman had allegedly been captured weeks after his last victim, the FBI placed him on Death Row before the media could hear of it. She didn't cite nor show any evidence of this claim, other than a shady operation by the FBI soon after The Fisherman's last victim.

Hannibal's lips curled into a small smirk. Maybe he should test this. Taking into account his reaction to Gideon's claim for his work, Hannibal was sure The Fisherman would resurface to prove himself if he hadn't been captured unlike Miss Lounds' article suggested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone loved it! Hugs and cuddles are welcome as encouragement for Ch3 (which will probably come in about a week)
> 
> Bonus points if you know which songs the chapter titles are from.


	3. Send the plutocrat to Jesus Christ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A session with Hannibal reveals a truth for Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to the wonderful Ash (Starkassembled both here and on tumblr) for being awesome, and Laura for being an ego booster.

Will closed his eyes. A pendulum swung in front of him, and his mind returned to the events of that morning. His vision was blurred. In front of him hanged a man, suspended by his lips, arms tied behind his back, ankles roped together. Left exposed on the porch of his home. It was his design. Will took a deep breath, clenching his hands, feeling the expensive leather of Hannibal’s chairs under his fingerstips. He opened his eyes and looked at the doctor that stood a few feet from him. Four deep red walls surrounded him, warm and inviting.

“I need you to tell me what you see, Will." Lecter asked again, his rough voice fully waking Graham from his daze. It was his second time asking, this time softer, leaning slightly towards him, allowing Will to know this was for his own good.

Taking a deep breath, the special agent scanned every detail of the doctor’s attire. The checkered suit, the matching waistcoat, the paisley tie, the wide knot tight at the bottom of his throat, his wide chin, thin lips, nose, and deep brown eyes that made Will’s dart away quickly. “I see the Fisherman. I see his construction. His design. But it can’t be-”

“Because he’s already been caught,” Hannibal nodded understandingly. He was testing the waters. Awaiting to see what Will's response was. It was not confirmation nor denial that The Fisherman was free, but he knew Will would put the puzzle together if the pieces were on display for him. He knew Will would know the show was not the Fisherman's, after all, he had sniffed out his elevation of Hobbs’s work, as well as Gideon’s awful plagiarism of his art. Still, he hoped he had been convincing enough to cause some confusion. 

“No. He hasn’t been caught.” Will said with clear certainty. There was something in Will’s eyes, a confident darkness, a tightening of his jaw, frustration hidden under the man's tired exterior. The statement made Hannibal’s head tilt in curiosity. Lecter took a slow step, and began to circle around Will’s chair, like a panther, not parting his eyes from his target, attempting to daze him. 

Fear began to creep up Will’s neck, a new warmth on the tips of his ears. Had he sounded too confident, as if he knew something he wasn’t supposed to? He had heard Jack complaining about Freddie Lounds’s new piece, making him seem like a stupid lying fool. Then the body appeared, and Jack’s reaction was not what he would have expected. A certain annoyance at the Fisherman’s reappearance, linking it back to the time Lounds triggered a reappearance of The Ripper. But this was not the Fisherman, it couldn’t have been. Could it? He remembered that night, until he fell asleep. He remembers that night’s nightmare. He had killed in that nightmare. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he sleep walked and did as he dreamed.

Hannibal looked at him with mild curiosity. He was obviously upset because of his current case. There was an internal monologue that he was not verbalizing, and he wished to know what it was. Though Will at times hid what he could of his mind, and Hannibal had learned to not look into those places, he still wished to know what he thought about the murder. Not that his ego needed to be inflated, or that he didn’t trust that Will's imagination to see the difference. On the contrary, he simply wanted approval that his work had come across as he wished. A monument by the Ripper, sending his condolences to the Fisherman for being caught, as well as a warning that he was being talked about. 

“But the media has said–” Hannibal started. He was behind Will, who remained looking ahead on his chair. Of course the media did not matter, but his veil needed to remain thick. He knew nothing but what Will and the media told him.

“I don’t care what the media has said.” Will cut him off, causing Lecter to stop on his tracks. The doctor turned on his heels and looked at Graham. His eyes were empty, it was very rude to cut off a person like that. Still he was pleased with Will began to make connections.

“So if The Fisherman is out there what tells you that it wasn’t him?”

The question rung in Will’s ears. What told him he hadn’t done it? He had no evidence that he had done it. Nor did he have evidence he had not done it. He unclenched his hands from the couch, rubbing the surface of the arm rests, wiping away the sweat that began to form in his palms. He felt like a caged animal. His captor surrounded him and licked his lips in delight. Will’s eyes scanned the entire room. He memorized the wood pattern on Hannibal’s desk, studied the light on the rail of the upper floor of his office, learned every crease in the leather chair across from him. His eyes moved quickly through each object, as he dug through his mind. He closed his eyes and saw the pendulum drop once again, going forward and backward, a tower of light in the middle of darkness.

He exited his car, slamming the door behind him. He made his way around the house, an old lonely home in the middle of nowhere. On the basement, he had learned, were staged dog fights, and he made profit out of bets placed on each animal. He easily opened the back entrance to the home, leaving no sign of forced entry. His target stood in the kitchen, he should have taken into account that a man of this kind would suffer anxiety when it came to sleeping, still, with no problem he wrapped his arms around the man, one firmly pressed against his throat. The struggle barely affected him, and quickly he owned the man’s last breath. He carried the large body to the bathroom, and set him on the tub. With surgical precision he opened an incision at the side of his chest, tracing the shape of his ribs, and let the blood spill into the tub. His hands reached into the opening, and with his hands he spread the ribs, giving him space to pull out the man’s lung. He repeated the step on the other side, then made a couple of incisions parallel to those, leaving him with gills. This last step made Will frown, his pupils moved from side to side under his eyelids. 

“His lungs were removed,” Will whispered and opened his eyes. “The Fisherman doesn’t remove the organs of his victims. He had never done it before, so why start now?” Will pushed himself to his feet and turned to Hannibal. Though he was shorter, now the two were leveled. “This is an admirer, someone that’s studied the Fisherman’s work. He knows why he kills, how he kills, and he couldn’t help it but add a personal touch to it.”

“Another copycat?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“No, this is not a copycat. This is a fan imitating an artist’s work. A very arrogant fan. He had to add a bit of himself to the murder.” Will stopped and looked at Hannibal, focusing on his chin so he wouldn’t have to stare at the man’s hunting eyes. 

He had realized that he was far too overwhelmed when he originally entered the scene to effectively reconstruct it. He had placed himself so deeply into it that he had lost half of the evidence that made the reconstruction. Coming into a scene like this after he had just dreamt that he had hanged a man in the same fashion frightened him. He wondered if he had been as clean as he needed to be, since this was his first killing after becoming part of the FBI again, and after contracting his hallucinations and fever. Entering the scene he believed it was of his own making. The morning was foggy and cloudy, and he had rushed through his process knowing the less time Jack or anyone from the BAU spent in his scene, the less likely he was to be found. Especially if this was work he had done unconsciously.

Hannibal shifted as he noted Will was debating in his mind once again. “Why couldn’t you see this before?”

“It felt too similar to The Fisherman.” Graham said meeting his eyes. “Same motive, same method. He just couldn’t help it but take it further. This person has done this before. This is not his first victim, but he had never killed like this before. He probably won’t kill the same way again.” Will’s presence retreated once again to his subconscious. 

The surgical trophy. The artistry. The trigger being a Tattle Crime article. The disgust for the victim. Will knew who this was. He had not expected for this response from such a particular killer, but he knew how this killer liked to taunt Jack. Yet the message was not for Jack, nor for Special Agent Will Graham. This was a message for The Fisherman, a wake up call, an alert that he was fading and it was his time to come back.

Will was a man of silence. Often during their sessions he'd retreat into himself. His imagination working the terrible images that he saw. Studying Lecter's work, his attention for the smallest detail.

Hannibal's years of practice, as was demonstrated with the negative he created of Hobbs' scenes, had brought him an understanding of the psyche of a killer, and was well aware of the motives of the Fisherman. Will wasn’t the only one with the capacity to understand these psychopaths. He shared the hatred for those pigs that hurt the innocent, and the love for a good display. Though for the fisherman it was solely an act of shaming the abuser, while for him it was a matter of making something beautiful out of horrible people. Taking their parts because they did not deserve them, and turning them into something others will enjoy, not wasting them on simply mounting them in front of their home. Though he did appreciate The Fisherman's ability to give a nod to others that shared their "hobby," for more than once he had given a compliment to a few others, and so he thought it would be courteous to return the compliment, considering this could be the last time this sort of show would be put up.

"Did this affect you any different because some of the themes are close to you?" 

Will frowned, tilting his head. The question was unexpected, but it made sense. He nodded quickly, dropping his gaze to Hannibal's shoes. "I was a bit confused during the scene, so I missed a few details."

"Confused? Did you lose time again?" 

"No," Will took a deep breath and rubbed his face as he made his way around the chair, moving closer to Hannibal. "I was at the scene early morning. I didn't get a good night of sleep. And seeing the body hanged from the porch, it got to me."

"Why?"

"They were things I recognized. More than once, I had seen a fish on display like that, growing up near ports. I knew the brand of the nylon, the type of hook that was used, even the knot that he used to tie him down."

"Like a killer was invading your only safe space?" Will nodded, his eyes remained on the ground. "The one thing that has remained untouched by this new world is now being tainted by this killer."

Will drove home that night with Hannibal's last statement circling in his mind. He knew this was not the case, but he let Hannibal draw his own conclusion, after all, it pointed everything further away from his reality. 

The long drive served as time to center his mind. Formulate a plan of action for how he was to tackle the Ripper's call. Will's head began to throb, a pressure on his temples made it hard for him to focus. He crouched and gripped the wheel tighter, stretching his neck, trying to shake off the ghost of the Chesapeake Ripper. 

He remembered reconstructing Gideon's representation of The Ripper, and he had felt powerful, still, a certain highness was missing. Will wasn't as exotic or pompous as the ripper. Even his own killings had a certain humility to them. That's when he realized he had never entered any of The Ripper's fresh scenes and have a chance to reconstruct them.

"I have to create his design," he whispered to himself.

Will made it home to his dogs finally, after the long drive from Baltimore. After dropping his bag and swallowing a couple of aspirins, he opened the front door and allowed his companions out for a bit of a run. In his hand he held a small glass with two fingers of whiskey, that he sipped on as the pups went about their business.

He called them to the porch and they chose spots around him, one of the smaller ones taking his lap as a bed. He looked down and gave the creature a small smile and absentmindedly pet him. "Oh I remember how I got you," he whispered and leaned back on the old reclining chair, his eyes closing as he swallowed the last of the cheap whiskey.

Going back inside he approached his calendar. The time gap between each of the Ripper's killings was nine days, giving him six more days to respond. He was attributing these displays to the other killer because he was the one that started this conversation, and Will knew he enjoyed any sort of compliment. 

Going through his drawers, he found a recent cut out of the local newspaper in Baltimore. A group of scientists, known for practicing on animals were interviewed. He checked the name of the head of the lab, Eric Johnson, marked on the caption. He was a tall, skinny man, probably in his late forties, according to his balding head and the wrinkles under his eyes. He kind of reminded Will of Zeller. They had a similar kooky grin, and their frame was similar under white lab coat. 

Will stood up. His eyes were darker than usual, a different type of darkness. It wasn't due to the permanent circles under his eyes. It was a darkness coming from within. A look of confidence and readiness he had not had in almost a year.

The Ripper's plan had worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again points to whoever guesses what song the chapter tittle is from!
> 
> Hint: it's a song from an album that came January of this year.
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcomed and loved!


	4. My Love Was My Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ripper's second victim is put on display, and Jack Crawford finds himself pushing Will once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual thank you to Ash (starkassembled) and Laura (lctrecool) for being the greatest and helping me through this!

Jack Crawford was restless in his sleep. His wife’s bedside remained untouched for she was away once again, in a conference in Europe. His chest rose and fell slowly, his lungs filled with the fading scent of his Bella’s perfume, a haunting, sweet aroma that kept him up at night. It danced around his nose, teasing him, reminding him that she won'y be with him much longer. He heard the phone ring, and he quickly reached for it, only to let out an annoyed sigh when it was yet another call about a body found in an artistically familiar manner. He paused and looked at his wife’s bedside. Fear crawled its way to the pit of his stomach, a heavy weight pinning him to the idea that this time his wife would meet the same fate as Miriam. That he would leave home, and Bella would find herself at the wrong place in the wrong time. Still, he was the bedrock in which many on the FBI had planted their foundations, including Will Graham, and Jack couldn’t allow cracks on the ground of a man’s whose structure was already faltering.

 

Crawford called Graham, only to be answered by an automated voice giving directions as to how to leave a voice mail. He would have never thought, that in the other side of the line, Will Graham washed the left over blood on his forearms of the surgery he had just performed, and looked attentively at the phone, allowing it to ring, eyes empty, surrounded by darkness. Will was aware at this time. His every move was calculated, careful to not let Jack bite into his hook for too long, otherwise he’d swim away with it.

 

"Come on, Will, wake up!" Jack groaned to no one and repeated the process. This time the groggy voice of the special agent greeted him. “We’ve got another one. I’m picking you up,” Crawford commanded, without need of introductions.

 

The sky was dark still, with the first hints of lighter blues and oranges appearing in the horizon, and the red leaves at the side of the road were now visible. In the car, Will slept, attempting to scare away the darkness that had settled under his eyes. From time to time Jack would glimpse at he sleeping agent, Will's boyish face contrasting against Crawford's weathered façade. Hannibal had told him little about Graham's terrors, but it was enough. Jack had to keep him close and keep pushing along the edge guiding him carefully, aware that any miss step would cause the special Graham to go down the cliff.

 

Arriving at the scene, Jack stepped out of the car and knocked on Graham's window. With a sharp breath, Will awoke with a start.

 

"We're here." Crawford paused to look at him for a short moment before continuing on to the scene, leaving Will to shuffle with the seat belt, before he finally followed behind Jack.

 

They walked through a trail, trees opening in front of them, a congregation bowing at the altar ahead. The forest cleared at the center, after a few minutes of walking through bone thin branches, and the scene presented itself for them.

 

"Do you really need me to tell you who did this?" Will asked sarcastically. 

 

"I do." Jack gave Will a quick glance, before his eyes turned ahead again.

 

"No you don't," he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, "We both know, very well, who did this. What do you need me here for?"

 

"Last time we thought it was him, it wasn't."

 

"Last time," Will turned to look at Jack, who quickly met his gaze, "you came to a conclusion before asking me. I am telling you, right now. This is The Ripper, and you should be getting ready for the third body." Graham turned, and began walking back to the car.

 

"Humor me just this once, Will!" Jack called after him, but a quick look at the agent told him Will was not returning. Crawford let out a sigh and looked at the display in front of him.

 

A man was suspended by fishing hooks, nylons tied to the trees that surrounded them. His white lab coat and dress shirt were tainted with scattered rich red dots. The man's head fell back, blue and lifeless, and the side of his mouth adorned with a homemade, brightly colored fly fishing hook. His feet were brushing against the ground, and if it wasn't for rigor mortis, his legs would still be swaying slowly as they dangled.

 

In Quantico Virginia, Will now stood in front of his class, lights dimmed, behind him a projected image of the last actual Fisherman victim.

 

"Juan Callahan. A 46 year old owner of a chicken farm in West Virginia. Like all other victims of the Fisherman death occurred–as he hoped–painlessly." Will sat on the corner of his desk, scanning the room. "His goal was not to torture or to cause pain. He merely wanted to shame–to expose–this man. And it worked." He switched the image to a fat chicken sitting in a cage far too small for it, with several cuts on its face, "Days after, reports appeared that Callahan's farm maltreated its animals." Again, he pressed the next button, and another picture from Callahan's scene appeared. "This was the first time he fished a big scale abuser. Before this we didn't know how he chose his victims, since all previous ones had seemingly no connection, but upon closer look, it was found that some of his other victims had pets that were poorly treated, and now we assume all of them had, somehow, mistreated an animal. When I say he fished Callahan, I do it in reference to the way he displays his victims. Hanged the same way it is done at ports. The biggest catch of the day," he whispered with sarcasm. 

 

"Unlike other serial killers, The Fisherman is not a psychopath," he continued. "He feels compassion for the 'victims' of his targets. These victims being pets, or any animal that the abusers come in contact with. Also, he doesn't have a time pattern. Most serial killers kill in groups, or within a time span. The Fisherman kills at random, and without possibility of anticipation. What does that tell you?" He paused for a second, and a few students raised their hands, but he answered for them, "It tells you that he does not plan these. He is an animal lover, and when he sees an injustice occur, he goes fishing.

 

"He had been inactive for almost a year, until Freddie Lounds," he changed the image to a screen image of the article, "claimed he had been captured. Then, the body of Kenneth Gary appeared dead in front of his home. Naturally, considering the design looked the same, and there were several similarities in the construction of the murder, it was attributed to The Fisherman." Another click switched the image to Gary's scene, "But the meticulous removal of Kenneth Gary's lungs revealed that this was in fact The Chesapeake Ripper's design. His goal this time was to elevate the Fisherman's design. Turn it into a work of art, more so than a pragmatic construction. Not in a disrespectful way, but as a monument to a fellow murder. As we know, the Ripper is an avid reader of TattleCrime.com, so when he read Lounds's article, he felt he needed to honor a murderer he... appreciated.

 

"This morning I attended The Ripper's second showing, and if he continues his pattern, the third body should appear soon." Will looked at the entrance. No one stood ahead of him, but his eyes had emptied, and his mind was processing his thoughts. Hitting one last button, Graham turned the lights on and the projector off, "Now I want you to think as The Fisherman. Tell me what kind of killer is him? Where does he fall in the spectrum?"

 

Will sat on his chair, and tossed his glasses on his desk. These classes were a dissection of the cases he worked on, and very much a trigger for his headaches. A throbbing on his temple and behind his eyes began upon taking his seat. His back tensed, his eyes scanned the room, and waited until it was clear of students to throw a few aspirins in his mouth. 

 

A few minutes later, Jack entered Will's lecture hall. He saw the professor seated on his desk, his eyes out of focus, directed forward. In front of him, Will saw the Ravenstag entering the room, bowing down its head in reverence to him.

 

"Will?" Jack asked, after Will did not acknowledge his presence when he first entered. 

 

With a blink, the Ravenstag disappeared from in front of Will. He ran his hands over his eyes and sighed, "I uh... Sorry."

 

"You sleep with your eyes open?" Jack asked approaching him.

 

Will put on his glasses at the bottom of the bridge of his nose. "It's become a habit."

 

Jack leaned forward on his desk. He scanned over the younger man’s troubled face, reaching out to carefully fix his glasses. “The body arrived at the lab.” Will’s eyes met Jack's for a brief moment, his eyes wide. Jack could see the usual stress he had when forced to go into the darkest places of his mind. But this was the Ripper, and he had a small room of time before he would disappear again, so pushing him this time was necessary. “Get your things and get down there.” The tenderness he had shown when he fixed Will’s glasses, now lost on the thought of catching The Ripper.

 

“I guess I won’t be coming back here for a while, will I?” Will asked as he began to gather his things.

 

“Not until he finishes his cycle, no.” Jack stood and put his hands in his pockets.

 

 Will paused in the middle of placing his papers back in his bag and looked at Jack with raised eyebrows before continuing his task. “Last time he did this I told you not to let him stir you up. You’re not one to take advice, are you?”

 

“Just get down to the lab. See what we can get from the evidence.” 

 

With that, Jack excited the lecture hall, followed by Graham a few steps behind. Crawford was stiff as he walked, pacing at a rhythm that was almost a military march, with big, long strides. Chin up and eyes ahead, his shoulders tense with the thought that it took a second murder for them to realize this was the Ripper. The famous murderer seemed to only be getting smarter, and better to get around the FBI with every cycle. At first he had been picked out quickly, but ever since the last cycle, he had managed to fool them until it was too late for them to catch him. He became dormant before they even got a concrete idea as to who had killed whom, and even if they had caught Devon Silvestri, The Chesapeake Ripper was still out there and taking lives.

 

Inside the lab, Will took a chair off to the side, out of the way, but still part of the conversation.

 

“Usual signature components all match,” Zeller began, “though the Ripper might have been a little shaky because the cuts are not as clean as they should be.”

 

Will frowned slightly at the comment. The Ripper is a surgeon, or some sort of medical doctor that has access to scalpels, and a good pulse, where as Graham is a shaky man, who, even though knew how to use a knife, would not have cuts as precise as someone who had medical expertise. 

 

“He cut it with a fishing knife. For authenticity purposes.” Will clarified.

 

“Isn’t it possible this is the Fisherman emulating his work after the Ripper, after he did the same to him?” asked Jack, who stood a few feet from the body.

 

Will looked at him, his hands gliding over his thighs, pressing hard down against them. He opened his mouth to speak but Jimmy Price was quicker. “I’m starting to think The Ripper loves an urban legend as much as I do!”

 

“The mutilations didn’t hide much this time,” Katz continued, “he took out the spleen, drawing gills on his victim again. It is definitely him though, he did it expertly, even if the gills he drew were not as clear as the ones on his previous body.”

 

“It was all deliberate.” Graham assured, “The Ripper loves a good performance, and he is not about to lose his grace when honoring another killer. If he wished to mock the Fisherman he would have no issue doing so. He knows the Fisherman is an intelligent man, but very practical in his murders, he doesn’t get lost in theatrics. When killing he would use a fishing knife, or even a pocket knife, so why would The Ripper not honor the Fisherman’s choice?”

 

“So he’s using the Fisherman’s tool in order to flirt with him?” Zeller asked.

 

“Like you’ve never changed for a girl.” Price responded, receiving a look from both Brian and Jack as the only reaction.

 

“Is the Fisherman a woman?” Katz smiled, the idea of dealing with a female killer always a big interest for her.

 

“No, he’s not,” Will replied standing up. “At least he doesn’t feel like one.” He slowly stepped over to the table and looked at the body. Where he had once placed large, thick hooks, that stained his clothing with trails of blood, now there where two holes for each of them. 

 

“Do we need to be thinking as the Fisherman in order to catch him, or do we have to keep in mind the one ultimately, physically killing these people is The Chesapeake Ripper?” Jack spoke firmly, not removing his eyes from the special agent that stood across from him. 

 

“This is The Ripper. What he is doing changes nothing except that he will probably go for an animal abuser again.”

 

“How does he find his victims then?” Crawford pressed on.

 

“They both choose at random. There is no connection between the victims and the murderers in either the Fisherman or The Ripper’s case,” Katz clarified. “Except that the Fisherman, I assume, is an animal lover.”

 

“Keep an eye out around the Chesapeake area.” Will said dryly, “If you see anyone mistreating an animal, wait a few days and The Ripper might show up.” 

 

In the outskirts of Baltimore, Hannibal had found his third pig: a young man, somewhere between 16 and 19 years old, son of a local fish vender, who Lecter had seen throwing live bait at costumers, and kicking his dog when he tried to ear one of the pieces that had landed on the ground. He now laid on his father's work table, a butcher knife stuck on his throat, keeping him silent. Hannibal had already been hard at worked, removing the boy's stomach and kidneys, now sorting through the father's knives to recreate his Wound Man once again, inserting each, making sure to obscure the organ removals.

 

Though this was his second murder, he appreciated the way the Fisherman had created "his" second piece. Unlike with Gideon, the work he claimed was up to his standard, and with the same purpose he often had. The understanding the Fisherman had of his work was very profound, and Hannibal was aware there were few with access to the amount of information the Fisherman seemed to have. Lecter had a few ideas of who it might be, he had thought of local fishermen in the area, but he knew someone with the knowledge, love for animals, and fishing skills. He wondered if Will Graham had the capacity within himself to be a killer and if that darkness inside him could be cultivated into an understanding friendship. Then again, this theory could just be a delusion, the product of desparate loneliness, regardless of the fact that the younger man spent most nights with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to have the next one up quicker than this one! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> As usual comments and kudos are apreciated!


	5. Then you try to hide it. A chance to move ahead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's incredible sense of smell leads to bigger suspicion. Is it confirmed?
> 
> Also Hannibal makes puns about Veal unbeknownst to Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took really long, and it is not even that lengthy. 
> 
> School is a thing that has begun, so I'm going to try to post on Monday nights, that way I have the weekend to write and get everything together.
> 
> As usual, thanks to Ash for being so awesomely helpful, and showing me after five years in America I still don't know English (Taco?)

"What am I about to put in my mouth?" Crawford asked, cutting into the dish he was just served. 

Hannibal took a seat across from him at his dining table, "Veal." A polite smile, so slight it barely existed, appeared on his lips, and he watched as Jack put a forkful of meat between his lips. Once he was chewing, Lecter rested back on his seat, fingers tapping on the silverware to make sure it remained straight, and his mind flooded with images of the preparation of his dish. 

The boy had been unspeakably rude.

Crawford made a small noise, and tilted his head with curiosity. "It has a fishy taste to it," he commented, not negatively, but an observation that Hannibal did not expect.

Lecter chuckled, "The meat acquires the taste of what it is fed. That's why some of the finest cattle is fed with champagne. But I have no interest in those, alcoholics don't make for very tasty cuts."

Jack gave him a smile, not quite the reaction Hannibal hoped for. His was solely on the lips, only stretching them, his eyes not mimicking the emotion. 

Hannibal raised his glass to Jack, taking a small sip of it. He adjusted on his chair again, smoothing the tablecloth in front of him, "I notice you're restless Jack. What is on your mind?" 

"What isn't on my mind?" Jack replied quickly. "I've got The Chesapeake Ripper at it again, and he might or might not be getting The Fisherman back in action."

"Will told me about this," Hannibal nodded understandingly. "You've got Will in over his head. He has not had a proper night of sleep since the first body appeared."

"I don't think any of us have." Jack noticed the disapproval of his statement, "I need him in this. We might catch two very intelligent, very notorious serial killers at once while this is happening." 

"And what makes you think Will will have any more luck this time than in his previous encounters with The Ripper?"

"Every new murder is more knowledge for him."

"It is also more stress, and therefore less clarity." 

Jack sighed and looked down at his plate, "We'll never agree on the subject of Will Graham. I know he can do this if he is pushed just a little more."

"And I can see this is not possible," Hannibal said as he cut into the meat. He slowly put it between his teeth, and a faint smile appeared as he chewed. "You promised him something, and it is on your best interest to keep that promise." Though he meant to threaten, Jack's slight relaxation told him he had understood the statement as  positive advice. 

"He can tell me when it is too much for him."

 

***

 

Graham closed his eyes. He saw the golden pendulum swing, surrounded by complete darkness, and waited till it slowed down to open his eyes. 

He stepped out of the workshop, making his way back to the store, until he reached the entrance. He was looking at the glass door, covered in stickers with puns about fishing, and the rules of the shop. He studied them for a second. Holding the bell to keep it from ringing, he opened the door. He wished to be unannounced. 

Stepping through the clear plastic curtains, the boy that had been left behind to close shop stood with his back to him. He reached for the butcher knife, making enough noise to alert the boy, and as he began to turn around, he stuck the knife on his throat. The blood sprayed on his face, creating a line of droplets along his neck and cheek. He made small effort of putting him on the work table, well aware that he had less than two minutes for the boy to die, and for his organs to lose freshness. He removed each organ with care, setting them on a cooler to preserve them. Then, he recreated the wound man, using the different knives on the shelves, masking over the cuts he had made.  

Will opened his eyes. His chest rose and fell incessantly, and tears began to form in his eyes. The room screeched at him. Graham felt the vibrations of the floor under his feet, and his head burned at his temples. He looked down at the boy again, just to see himself butchered under the knives. Graham stumbled backwards, until he reached one of the metal tables, which made a deafeningly loud clang.  A quick look back, and he saw the table behind him, looking ahead once again to see the teen back with his original face.

He was just a boy, not even out of high school yet. Graham managed a deep breath, looking up to hold back the tears. The extent of the murders of The Ripper were far more brutal than he had originally believed. Only if Will had known the boy's crime, would he have accepted him as a target. Yet, it terrified him that he was dealing with a man this ruthless. Not because he was Jack's favorite profiler, but more so, fully aware that The Ripper desired his attention. 

He stepped through the plastic curtains, putting on his glasses as another barrier to hide his swollen eyes. His father always told him boys don't cry. Will took a small bottle of aspirin out of his pocket,  took three at once, and waited for the shouting to stop.  

Jack saw Will across the shop, and all he saw were tired eyes. A small sigh escaped him. He wasn't about to admit Dr. Lecter was right, but he began to consider his words. 

Graham stepped out of the shop, and sat on the reclining chair outside, by the window. The place, the smell of fish, the dampness of the air, it was all too familiar to him. More than once in his childhood had he waited by the backdoor of these places, while his father sold their load of the day. Except two. He always kept two. One for himself and one for young Will. The money they got from the sale would be mostly used pay for all else needed to prepare that night's meal, most likely frozen peas. 

He could hear the voices around him, as if he was in a pool and the chatter was at the surface.  

"Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard," Beverly's voice woke him. She was leaning back against a rusty pole that was in front of him. A confused frown was the only response she got. "You get lost when you're thinking. You're so focused that there could be an earthquake and you wouldn't feel it."

"I'm just trying to find anything new," he sighed and rubbed his jaw. Graham rested his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands. 

"You know," she said, offering a concerned smile, "Sometimes stepping away from things brings clarity."

"Nah, not for me. What do we know so far?" 

"His name is Damian Jackson, 17, attended the local high school, his father was the owner of the store."

"He hangs around here often. The ripper came–weeks ago, maybe even months–far enough that there's probably no record of his visit."

"The only alarm system in the shop is a fire alarm. There are no cameras we can look at."

"You can check and interview all that have paid with a credit card in the past few months. Though if he is as smart as he seems to be, he paid with cash." Graham suggested as he ran a hand over his forehead.

 

***

 

That afternoon Graham had his weekly session with Dr. Lecter. He stepped into the room shyly, the mere presence of Hannibal making him feel inadequate, yet so very much at home. 

"Evening, Will," he said with a smile. 

"Hello, doctor," Graham responded removing his jacket. He threw it, along with his hat, on the black leather futon. 

"Please, Will. Even it we have put boundaries between these conversations and our relationship, I have told you to call me Hannibal."

"Hannibal," he nodded. Will stood far from him, as the doctor was leaning on his desk, and Graham was in need of his personal space. 

When Will pulled on his glasses, there was a change in the room. Lecter closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A faint, coppery scent that he knew so well came from the special agent. He got up and circled around his desk. Slowly, and steadily, Hannibal approached Will, like a lioness, barely visible in the plains. Graham spoke about the newest body, and Lecter retained what he felt necessary, his attention centered on Will's cocktail of scents: sweet, warm, metallic. Intoxicating.

As he got close, he saw Will stiffen, and his words began to stutter. "A-and... I saw myself in him."

Lecter nodded, taking in the scent, a face of understanding. "Was this an association or a hallucination?" 

"I was not hallucinating. There's a lot in me I see in him." 

"So you felt personally targeted by The Ripper."

In more than one way, "Yes."

"Have you had any more trouble on the scenes you've attended?" 

"No." The response was quick and automatic.  

Hannibal continued his path, walking past him, leaving behind the coppery sweetness. His back was to Will, and the human veil had gone for a short second. The polite glimmer in his eyes replaced by complete darkness, and a smirk that could only suggest victory. 

The session was a blur. All his concentration was lost on the scent radiating from Will, and a new factor added to his theory. 

Graham exited the room when Lecter's watched beeped. He was far too loaded to even considering spending the night anywhere from his home. He almost wished he would lose time, so that he was home in an instant, and could head to bed.

The night was dark. The only lights around the street in front of Hannibal's office was a light post every other yard. The sky was clouded, he had no stars to guide him on his way home. Soon after he began his drive to Virginia, a curtain of rain enveloped him. The droplets were thick and heavy, clouding any vision besides a few feet ahead of him. 

He knew he was near one of the first suburbs in Virginia, and would have a slight change in scenery soon enough. He saw a box in the distance, and soon recognized the heads of kittens popping through the top. He slowed down and parked by the box. Inspecting its contents, he saw 7 cats, he checked each one of them, most shivering at the edge of life, and two that had lost the fight. They were far too young to be without their mothers.

He could feel the anger creeping up on him. It came in the form of a headache. He reached into his pocket and took a couple more aspirins, and sighed

He settled the box on the passenger's side and took a blanket from his trunk, in an attempt to keep them warm, and hopefully alive. He also put water collected from the rain in the car's unused ashtray, and put it in the box so they at least had some water. On the front of the box it read 'Kitten give-away' and an address and a phone number offering more information.

He drove through the suburbs without issue. Most families were already in bed by that time. Graham stepped out of the car in front of the indicated home. His curls and shoulders were wet from when he had picked up the box. He took every step up the porch carefully, the old wood creaked under his feet. A quick look around showed him there was no way of entering without triggering an alarm.  

He stepped through the bushes. With a pocket knife, he began to work on the back door. It was old and rusty, it wouldn't cooperate with him.  

A familiar low, dark, exotic tone spoke behind him, sending a shiver up his spine. 

"Hello, Will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for reading.
> 
> As per ush, comments, kudos, and huggles are all welcomed, specially if they involve humping.
> 
> It is late, I am tired, see you guys on the next chapter, or on my tumblr: http://faabyywrites.tumblr.com


	6. A Guilty Conscience Grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ripper and The Fisherman have their first encounter, and it goes… not as The Ripper had thought. And Will's dependance on Hannibal begins to spill out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ash for being amazing and coping with my awful grammar and helping me fight this one out! Sorry it took so long!

The moon, high behind Lecter, kept his features dark, the thick rain droplets spattered loudly against his black rain coat, and his hair began to lose its perfect arrangement. Behind him, the naked trees had a silver light to them, the droplets in the right position to glimmer under the moon, and the leftover snow from days past added a diamond-like quality to them. He stepped around the house, through the bushes, where Will had already left a trail. A thick coat of brown mud covered the tip of his Italian leather shoes, that were easily the same price as the average American salary, and the damp floor masked the sound of his footsteps, as the handmade wooden heels usually resonated inside hard floored rooms. A smirk appeared on his lips. He watched Will struggle with the lock with delight. The rain had soaked through his blue plaid shirt, and it hugged against Graham’s body, pressing tightly against his back. His dark curls stuck to his forehead, itching against his brow, creating a trail for droplets to sting into his eyes. He attempted to wipe them away. Still, the heavy rain continued to fall on him, it continued to wet his fingers, and kept them from precisely removing the lock on the door. A chill traveled down his neck, his perpetual fever flared up once again, and a nauseating disgust formed in his throat. Graham tightened his grip on the tools, causing the flesh on his knuckles to whiten. His teeth gritted together, to the point that his jaw began to ache. He wiped the water off his eyes again, and Lecter settled behind him.

"Hello, Will." 

The knife fumbled out of Graham’s hands, and the blade pierced into the mud. He turned around. A thousand questions formed as soon as he saw the man, but one glance into his void, maroon eyes answered all of them. 

Lecter’s smirk widened. 

Will picked the knife from the ground, folded it, and put it in his pant pocket. Looking back up at Hannibal, the man had gone. In his position stood a thin, naked man with leathery black flesh and stag antlers that rose two feet above his head.  Graham's heartbeat thumped against his ears. He knew what stood across from him was a hallucination, even still if it was the true form of Hannibal: a demon with no place amongst humans. Will rose his gun.

Hannibal took a quick sniff of the air. Past the smell of rain and mud, he could pick out the sweet smell of fever, hot in the midst of the cold night. To stand under this thick rain was not good for Will's infection. The scent intensified, and Hannibal smirked.

"Are you a killer Will?" He asked looking at the gun. "You. Right now. This man standing in front of me. Is this who you really are?" 

"I am who I've always been. The scales have just fallen from my eyes. I can see you now."

"What do you see?"

"You imitated my work. You forced me to kill again, when I had given up on my quest. I had stopped killing hoping the nightmares would stop. But you brought them back."

"Did it not feel good to kill those who wronged your values? Would it not feel good to kill me now?"

"Oh, but those people mistreated animals. Have you ever mistreated an animal?"

"This home is empty. I am the one that left the box in the road."

Hannibal heard a click from Will's gun. He grabbed the gun barrel, using it and Will's shaky stance, for him to turn around. Lecter pressed his hand against his throat, holding his thumb on the safety to keep it from going off.  Will didn't fight him. He could feel Lecter's large hand press against his throat, and the air begin to disappear.

Lecter pressed his cheek against the top of Graham's head, releasing some the grip on his throat slightly. "I wouldn't dishonor you, Will. I took care of them. I sedated two of them, and the others are healthy and old enough to be on their own for a couple of hours."

"Why did you do it?"

"I was curious what you would do."

"I fell right into your trap." 

Graham was released.

"It was not a trap. It was a test."

"Did I pass?" He spat with sarcasm.

"You did exceptionally."

Will glared at him. "Well whatever partnership you wanted to have, forget about it." He began to walk back towards the front, and Lecter followed.

"If you were done with The Fisherman, then why did you respond to my first murder?"

"I wasn't aware at the moment it happened. I woke up with the man's liver in my hand. I had no option but to finish it. I had left too many tracks uncovered."

Will opened the trunk of his car and changed into a dry shirt before getting into the driver's seat. 

Lecter held the door from closing. "If you followed the urges you have kept down for so long, cultivated them as the inspirations they are, you would become someone other than yourself." 

"I know who I am." Will forced the door shut and drove away, as the rain began to intensify.

Lecter watched him drive away, the warm sweetness still lingering in the air. The rain washed away the scent from around him, still the memory was hot and alive. He knew Will was to keep his secret, there was no need for threads, even if Hannibal had already crafted evidence that Will was The Fisherman. Lecter got in his car. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back what had fallen on his face, and after a deep breath he was off to Baltimore. 

 ***

Graham arrived at his home, and checked the time. It was almost midnight. He searched through his cabinets, until he found the whiskey, and poured himself two fingers. He took a shower, and afterwards he drank another one.  One of the dogs approached him while he sat on his bed, the towel still around his waist. A low whine escaped the dog, and it rested its head on his knee. He graced his fingers over the dog’s head and sighed. 

Will stood. He felt the coldness of winter on his skin, a constrained shiver on his chest. Walking around his home nude was probably not smart, as the chill snuck in through the thin walls of his home. The space heater was surrounded by the dogs. At least they'd be warm when he went to bed. He went back to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. 

Turning around, the first rays of sunlight were showing in the sky. He looked at the clock again. It was past five in the morning. 

Graham blinked a few times at the clock. The cold began to set in. He wrapped his arms around himself, careful not to drop his drink, and headed to his room. There was a sting on his elbows when he extended them to pass them through the sleeves, and when he sat on the bed, the same burn reached the back of his knees. 

 The morning greeted him with a headache. The alarm was loud. Too loud. He slammed the off button, rubbed his face, and stirred in the sheets. Even the slightes brush of the blanket hurt. 

 ***

 Alana Bloom entered Graham's lecture hall at the FBI Academy a few days later. She was scheduled to guest lecture, and thought she'd say hello to her friend. She peaked her head into the room. Will stood in front of her desk, the back drop white, but he was giving his lecture to no one.

 "Will?" She asked cautiously as she stepped into the room, "May I come in? Unless you are rehearsing." 

 Will blinked twice. "No, no, come in."

 "How are you, Will?" 

 It took him a second to answer. He let out a pained chuckle, and shook his head wearily, "I don't know."

 Alana heard sadness in his voice, but she was not there to pick him apart and figure out anything he wouldn't tell her. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, "You're warm."

 "I tend to run hot. And I have a headache that won't go away."

 "Have you tried aspirin?"

 He took out a small white bottle from his pocket, "I'm way ahead of you." 

 Dr. Bloom looked at her friend with compassion. "Why don't you go see Hannibal? He's a doctor, he could prescribe you with antibiotics."

 "You are also a doctor. Why don't you prescribe me?"

 "Because Hannibal would never allow anyone else to treat you. He's very protective of you."

 Will scoffed. "Is he?"

 "Is there trouble in paradise?"

 Will pushed himself off the desk he had been leaning on. His hands were in his pockets, and he paced around the room. "When did our relationship become 'paradise'? And more so, when did everyone start caring? Last time I checked, everyone frowned at it."

"I'm your friend Will. I'm friends of both of you. I have always cared. And I do have to say I was skeptical at first, but I can see Hannibal is good for you. Jack told me you had a better time looking at scenes than when you started."

 "Have I gotten bad again?" 

 "You tell me. I don't go on the field with you."

 Will glanced at her, then at the ground. Alana could see him shuting down in front of her, just what she didn't want. She saw his hand twitch inside his pocket. 

 He went back to leaning on the desk beside her, and whispered, "I've been having trouble sleeping. The thinking has just... shut down. I don't know how much help I can be anymore." 

 "Have a conversation with Hannibal, Will." 

 Will shook his head. 

 ***

Graham leaned against the back wall of Jack's office. Chairs were arranged in five short rows for the press. Men and women with cameras and notepads sat in their respective seats, and Jack stood in front of them on the podium. 

The case of the Fisherman and the Ripper was weeks behind. Now they were focused on a new killer. Hobbs had crawled and wrapped himself around Will so much, that he no longer distinguished the cases.

He wasn't sure why he was there. Whatever Jack was saying got lost. He heard waterfalls around him, making the walls of the room shake. A drop of sweat fell down his temple. His breathing was hard. His nose too clogged to breath properly, and his throat burned when he attempted to inhale through his mouth. His head heavy, weighted down by the fever.

 The waterfall fell washed over him. The water was ice cold, so cold it burned his skin. He couldn't see anything. His glasses were drenched, and his hands were held down by the water pressure, keeping him from removing them. Slowly, it reduced, like someone closed the faucet it had come from. 

 Jack and the reporter's voices remained distorted. He could see Crawford's lips moving, but they did not match the sound coming from them.

 "Are you simply going to stand there, or are you coming to look at the body?" Was the first thing he heard clearly. It was Zeller's voice. It took Will a second to find him. He was right in front of him. "You've been standing there for at least an hour."

 "I was listening to the conference."

 "Yeah, that ended an hour ago."

 Will could finally move his arms. He removed his glasses and placed them in the pocket on his shirt. "What do you need me to do?"

 "Body arrived, and Jack wants you to look at it."

 ***

 The killer they were investigating struck again. Crawford gathered his favorite team, and brought them to the scene.  

Will was the first one to see the crime. It was fresh. No less than a couple of hours had passed. The smell of blood was still in the air, and a loud screech was emitted from the walls.  

He closed his eyes. A pendulum swung in the darkness of his mind, and he waited for the screaming to quiet down. Opening his eyes, he stood outside the room. He barged into the room quickly. His hand found the throat of the teenage boy, a knee on his chest to keep him down. He used his other hand to pull his chin up. The hand on his throat now grasped a knife and made a single cut on his throat. 

The pendulum swung once.

Will's hand held his pocket knife in his hand. He had a particular arterial spray across his shirt, and fresh blood covered his hands. He threw the knife aside and ran out of the room. He encountered Jack and the science team standing outside. 

 His breaths were short and quick, his head burned, and the room began to scream again. A rush of panic went through Will's body, traveling up his spine, and wrapping around his head. The screaming got louder. The room moved, wanting to throw him off his balance. He put a hand to the wall, leaning his head forward.  Then everything went dark.

 ***

Lecter sat on a chair in a hospital room. In front of him, Will Graham laid unconscious. Hannibal watched Will's eyes moving under his lids, and his chest rise and fall slowly and evenly. The beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, and Lecter swam in a sea of Graham's particular scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I changed a lot a bit from the previous version I had of this, but I am way happier with it now!
> 
> (If you read the last chapter and love Hanni&Badelia as much as me, do not worry, it is coming!)
> 
> Comments and Kudos always welcomed!


	7. Increase the Medication and Share the Vows at the Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal Lecter realizes the importance of communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! I wrote it! Sorry it took forever, or seemingly forever, for me at least.
> 
> Hopefully you guys will love this.
> 
> As always, thanks to [Ash](http://starkassembled.tumblr.com) for being amazing and baring with my blocks and walking me through them.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you.” 

Lecter crossed his legs. He sat in the living room of Bedelia Du Maurier home. On the glass table by his chair was a half empty glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Across from him sat his psychiatrist. She held herself together, legs crossed at her ankles, leaned forward with her hands on her knees, one elbow on the arm of the chair.

“I know.” She noticed a slight tilt of Hannibal’s head and continued, “You keep a side of yourself from me. If you were completely honest, I would know what this side holds. Nevertheless, whatever you were about to confess, I am sure will not involve this other side of you.”

Hannibal licked his lips, still tasting the soft, sweet richness of the wine, and smiled at the doctor’s intellect. “I assure you, no one is one hundred percent honest with anyone. Not even their psychiatrists.”

“That is true. Still, no one hides as much of themselves as you do. Tell me then, what is your confession?”

Lecter placed his hand on his knee, lacing his fingers together. “I was about to confess I was in a romantic relationship with Will Graham.”

“Was? That implies your relationship is no longer.”

“It is, as some may say, complicated.”

“Why is that?”

“My view of who Will is, was slightly askew.”

“And this bothered you.”

“It bothered him. He, I guess, felt I misconstrued him.”

“People want to be represented as who they are. Whatever the matter you misconstrued, if he feels you do not accept who he truly is, then I cannot tell you this relationship will come out of it’s complicated state.”

“I stand on my belief.” Lecter uncrossed his legs and made sure the glass was in the middle of the table. “He has yet to realize his potential.”

“You’re stubborn, Hannibal. The basis of a relationship is compromising, and accepting, specially your partner’s personality. Even the best psychiatrists make mistakes and bad judgements as to who their patients are. You are creating a delusion of who Will Graham is so he fits a standard you have set. Maybe you’re even wishing he could see on the other side of your veil.”

“Clearly, I’m not the only psychiatrist who makes mistakes.”  
***   
Hannibal had gotten a call from Jack. A bad episode during a scene caused Will to collapse, and he was taken to the hospital. Knowing the staff from the hospital, Lecter had no problem acquiring Graham’s medical report. Will’s temperature was 105, white blood cell count was twice the normal levels, and they still couldn’t identify the source of his infection.  
  
Will had the light blue blanket up to his chest. It’s pale color made Will’s natural light complexion appear more sickly. Lecter grazed his hand over Graham’s and watched the monitors. No change. He curled his fingers around Will’s, feeling his cold fingers under his own.   
  
The younger man’s hands were rough. A childhood of poverty and hard work created calluses at the base of his fingers as well as the tips. Lecter could feel them under his fingertips. A reminder of the Graham’s rough past. His years working with his dad along the many rivers in Louisiana, and following him from the boatyards of Biloxi and Greenville, to lake boats on Erie. The scars of hooks that he had mistakenly sunk into his skin, as a careless child or a distracted adult, were scattered along the back of his hand and thumb. Thin, pink lines of raised skin, creating an interesting pattern for Hannibal to memorize as he watched Graham sleep.

The scent of blood was alive and sweet under Will’s dirty fingernails. The nurses were under the impression they had gotten every bit off of Graham, but someone had failed to teach them that it took more than just a wet cloth to break down blood. Though Lecter was thankful. It was proof of Will’s nature spilling out of him. He had suppressed these urges for so long, denied their truth to the point that they worked to crawl their way out of Graham, whether he liked it or not. The tall, dark creature Graham had seen in Hannibal’s position that night was what Lecter looked like when he shed his veil, and he knew Graham was just as beautiful under his.

Lecter reached into his bag and retrieved the lunch box he had packed. At the end of Graham’s bed, on the tray over his ankles, Lecter placed the container with steaming soup.

A faint smell reached Graham. “Smells delicious.” He mumbled, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. Once the form of the man in front of him formed a clear enough shape, Will realized what he had just called delicious.

Hannibal glanced up at Will. “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal values since the 7th century,” Lecter explained as he fixed the plate, “Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

Will frowned, these were too many words for him to process at this given moment. He picked up chicken and broth. “You made me chicken soup?”

He looked up at Will again. “Yes.”

Lecter fixed everything on to the table. Graham sat up carefully, rolling the IV with him. They sat across from each other, a professional air between the two. Weeks of unanswered calls and missed appointments seemingly irrelevant to the maturity of both men.

"The nurses tell me you’ve been wandering, Will."

"Not willingly." Will looked down at the plate. He wondered who the small black claw was, how Hannibal got it to that shape, and what it had done to deserve its fate.

"So you’ve been sleep walking?"

"Haven’t stopped."

"Where have you wandered off to?"

"Nowhere specifically. I always make my way back somehow."

"This could have been prevented." Lecter realized Graham’s soup remained untouched. "We have not had a full conversation in weeks."

"I don’t think our conversations should continue."

"You could have let me know."

"I’m letting you know now."

"Three weeks after the matter? I have to say, as your friend–" In another situation Lecter would have referred to Will as his lover, but was to mind the way he used his words.

"We are not friends."

"What would you call our relationship?"

"A mistake." It wasn’t. He was lying through his teeth, but he wouldn’t let Hannibal see that. He spat out the words as coldly as he could. He was not the Fisherman any more, and even less so to be the Ripper’s personal toy. He often blamed Jack for being the one to push him further than he should, but ultimately it was the man in front of him that landed him in the hospital, that caused his hallucinations, that kept him up at night. All the nights of consolation and support were so far away Will would never believe the man in front of him was the same that would get up in the middle of the night to search for him in the streets of Baltimore.

Lecter smirked, “Fear makes you rude, Will.”

"Are you adding me to your shopping list?"

The doctor chuckled, “No, no. The world if too much fun with you in it. I wouldn’t do that to you unless it was absolutely necessary.”

"You could easily be lying."

"I’m a man of my word, Will. I have never lied to you."

"What constitutes as lying in your mind?"

Lecter’s smile widened and his sharp canines began to show. “You have not touched your soup, Will”

Will looked down at the plate. He was well aware of what this could be. He grabbed the spoon, tapping it twice against the table, before going scooping a mouthful. He dragged the spoon along the edge to rid of any excess before bringing it to his lips, his eyes not parting from Lecter’s whose eyes disgustingly overflowed with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos welcomed! 
> 
> Tell me what you think of the chapters, PLEASE! They help immensely. 
> 
> See you soon, hopefully. Or on my tumblr: [faabyywrites.tumblr.com](http://faabyywrites.tumblr.com)


	8. Respiro Il Silenzio (I Breath The Silence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is forced to accept the truth about his wife's disease, and we delve into their past and the beginning of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a better (sadder) experience, listen to["Nights In White Sattin (Notte Di Luce)" by Mario Frangoulis](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNwDGBPc3FA), which is where I borrowed the title from. It made me cry as a child, and it still does. Beautiful, beautiful song.  
> Thanks to my dad for introducing me to Italian music in my youth (I'm 17, what am I talking about?). And Ash for not completely hating me—yet.

It had been an exhaustingly long day for Jack Crawford. He had Will Graham in the hospital, a contaminated crime scene, and an active serial killer. He dropped his keys on the table by the entrance of his home. Faintly, in the distance, played a familiar song, the crackles of an old radio sipping through the audio. Taking a left he entered the kitchen, and with her back to him, was Bella Crawford sitting on their small kitchen table.

“You’re home early,” he commented.

She turned around to glance at Jack, who was now circling around the table, “I went to the doctor today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone with you.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, his desperate attempt to continue his duties as a husband.

“Jack!”

His eyes diverted to the ground at the scolding. Jack paused for a second then let out a small sigh, “What did he say?”

Something in her face changed. Crawford couldn’t quite tell what it was, but whatever the doctor had said, he knew it was bad. The way she shifted on the seat was not natural for her, as a woman of great composure and brains as she had always been. She reached for his hand and squeezed it softly. Only then did he realize how many shades lighter she had become. 

Bella had been away for about a week, off in Europe in a conference. A combination of stressing over work and his wife’s disease kept him from noticing her deterioration. Studying her features now, what he had once seen as a tall, strong, intelligent Amazon, now resembled closer to an unkempt statue of what it used to be. She was still beautiful. Her sad smile was still bright red, and not a hair was out of place. More importantly, the tenderness and intelligence he had fallen in love with, the warmth that transferred from her hand to his remained.

“What did the doctor say, Bella?”

She took a deep breath and met his eyes, “He told me to start getting ready.”

“How much longer?” His voice was all business. Letting any tenderness sip through would be the biggest mistake Jack Crawford could commit. But should he look at her the way he looked at all the death he saw every day would be a dishonor.

“He said anywhere from five weeks to three months.”

Saying Jack’s world crumbled at that point would be an understatement. His everything shattered inside. Although he had begun getting used to the idea that he would no longer have his Bella around him, having a final date made her mortality tangible. 

How do you shop for a coffin?

Jack leaned down and softly, tenderly dropped a kiss on the top of her head. 

“Is there anything I can offer you romantically, emotionally, or spiritually that’ll help?” he asked.

“No.”

“So as your husband, what I can do for you is leave you alone and not ask you any questions.”

“You can ask me anything you want.”

He looked at her for a short second. There was nothing to ask, at least nothing worth asking. The only question Jack could formulate at the moment couldn’t be answered by Bella, or a doctor, or even God. 

He leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle kiss on the top of her head. 

 

They sat in silence, listening to the old tape Bella had put in before Jack arrived. The old crinkles in the sound were reminders of the spring of their relationship, muffling over the soft voice of Mario Frangoulis, that caressed against their skin, teasingly, lovingly encouraging them to think of their start. 

Of their beginning in Italy, where Jack's biggest obstacles were beautiful Italian men with accents and compliments in their native language. She seemed unchanged by this though, and at first believed her to be Italian as well, as she had been speaking Italian every time he had seen her, until he realized she was wearing American NATO staff uniform.

Young Jack Crawford was slim, fit, and very good looking. He was far more adventurous than now in his adulthood, yet he had an air of confidence and command he still carries today. Approaching her, he knew he had two advantages: they spoke the same language, and they were to return to the same country. And upon returning to the United States, Jack had the ability to choose where he wished to live, and upon chatting  with Bella, he knew Washington DC wasn’t a far fetched option. Any hope for a relationship with “la bella signorina” that all the Italian men, and himself, drooled over came from this, so she soon became his Bella. Though, in actuality, he was hers more than she was his.

In the end, all these adventures and stories end in the same way, and that same is that they end. And what is after that for those that stay behind for a bit longer? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS IS SO SHORT, BUT I FELT I COULDN'T ADD ANYTHING TO THIS AND I HOPE IT HITS YOU THE RIGHT WAY.
> 
> I promise the next one will come a lot quicker, and hopefully the story will be packed for the next one.
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated! Any critiques and corrections as well.
> 
> Thanks again for being patient.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a novel length fic. Bare with me as I try to update it as often as possible!


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